


sing of metamorphoses

by halleycomets



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, guys bein dudes, what's better than this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 15:58:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7274449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halleycomets/pseuds/halleycomets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,<br/>All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old,<br/>Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,<br/>Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,<br/>A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,<br/>Chair’d in the adamant of Time.</p><p>walt whitman, america</p>
            </blockquote>





	sing of metamorphoses

**Author's Note:**

> i was given some prompts by @riverbed for some canon era lams and WELL here it is
> 
> literally nothing happens, it's just them having a good time, but there is some Subtle Discourse and some very worthwhile prose painting because i love me some landscapes! i also slapped a whitman poem on here just to show yall how gay i really am.
> 
> as usual i love comments and kudos thank you thank you for reading

Alexander’s fingers stuck in his hair as he combed it out of its ribbon; humidity made it coarse and big, and he felt it on his cheeks as loose, frizzy curls expanded to frame his face. He watched his own bare foot, fleabitten with grass and mud, feel its way to comfort around a rock through the murky lens of the stream tumbling over it.

“Do you know what the worst thing about fording a river is, John?” He furrowed his brows in concentration, his arms spread to balance his next, immaculately calculated step, black velvet wrapped around his right hand like a bandage with the dancing tips betraying his wobble.

“When you begin to realize it was just a creek?” He heard Laurens laugh from the bank where he was headed. Laurens hadn’t been half as cautious; he had nigh on gone swimming their first crossing and cared little for how wet his uniform got on the second, insisting it would dry overnight while he slept in the Inn. Alexander was used to keeping nice what nice things he had, his breeches hiked up to his knees, his boots set under the horses where they had been left to graze behind where John stood.

_ “No,”  _ He said, easing another foot into the water. “It’s having to ford it a second time on the way back.”

“Oh yes?”

“Been there, done that. No point in the repetition.”

“Especially when it took you at least seven minutes the first time.”

“Now how do you figure that, Father Time?! When all of our affects  _ including  _ your pocketwatch are attached firmly to our saddles, which are as far as I'm aware still attached to our horses, who remain tied just around the-” Alexander looked up at him then, finger pointed in the horses’ direction indignant protest, but stopped short. John Laurens’s bare back was turned to him, broad and brown and dappled, dimples between his shoulders, a pleasant-looking thickness to both his waist and the back of his neck that impressed strength -- strength, and softness to the touch. Alexander’s mouth remained ajar. His head cocked.

John turned around, holding wet clothes to his chest. “Around the what?”

“A- around,” Alexander, scrambling for recovery, began trudging forward, plunging his feet into the water and staying upright through pure momentum. “Around the trees, of course-” His knee lurched, and he barely caught himself with his ribbon-bound hand on a rock as he fell, bent at the hips with his sleeve immersed to the wrist.  _ “Damn it,”  _ he shouted, his voice hacking into the trees and sending a flurry of mourning doves out of the canopy. The horses stirred.

“Oh, Lord, Alexander.” John’s articles dropped to the dirt in a muted clatter of buttons as he made his way back into the creek, bare arms outstretched. “Grab onto me.”

“You think I can’t right myself? Please, John-”

“We don’t have all  _ night _ , it’s getting dark-”

“Washington doesn’t care when we-”

_ “Hamilton! _ ” 

Alexander glanced up at him sharply from his unfortunate position. He set his jaw. “Lieutenant Colonel. I’m sorry I can’t salute.”

John sighed. “Take my hand.”

Alexander looked him up and down. He reached out with his left hand -- John clasped it in his. 

“You’re a stubborn little man.” John grinned at him

Alexander looked his face over, avoiding his body. He couldn’t help but grin back. “You continue to charm me out of it nonetheless.”

 

* * *

 

 

The two headed back to the Inn the way they came, each leading his rebridled horse by loose reins. Alexander’s compact bay strode close behind him, aloof to John’s fine rippling gray. They were two of only a handful of horses among the company; John’s had the superior conformation and intelligence, bought out of his own pocket, a deeper one than the Continental Army’s. Both of them were on edge, withers shaking, ears flicking, sensitive to each crack under their masters’ feet. The reason became clear as the leaves gave way and they emerged from the treeline into a clearing -- the hazy sky they had left behind for a walk in the woods had purpled like a bruise, layers of defined storm clouds texturing the dusk. The sunset buffeted against the veil, casting an opiate pink that seeped under the horizon line and spattered long, uncanny shadows of the trees onto the grass. Fireflies had begun to make themselves known, turning up and down their organic oil lamps to signal one another. 

“They're signalling the British approach,” said John.

“They're soliciting sex,” quipped Alexander with the truth. 

John laughed.

The slack in the reins swatted at Alexander’s legs as it dangled from the crook of his arm while he stared out at the terrain.  He was fully uniformed again, boots squeaking against his wet calves, his damp sleeve under his jacket rawing his wrist. His body was irritated, but his mind was travelling to another sensory plane. He had come from a beautiful place. Most people he had met here had never seen a beach, let alone the tropics -- certainly he had the advantage on views. But there was something about this deciduous America that gutted him, that took him up in its musky arms and placed him on its solid shoulders. He could only see to the Inn from here, and yet he felt he could see the whole world. There was no ocean trapping him anymore. He had already crossed it. Done Icarus one better.

Somewhere far away but not far enough, thunder rumbled.

**Author's Note:**

> (I LOVE FEEDBACK)


End file.
